Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.


Chapter 4

He'd managed to fix the contents of all but two of the flats his little zero-gravity experiment had affected; well, everything except the most complex of the electronic equipment. Unfortunately, that was currently beyond his "magical" skills. He was still certain there was a perfectly rational explanation for it. He had decided to save the lovely Widow Weber's residence for last, so now he was creeping through the dark and silent living room of the family who lived to his right.

He winced guiltily at the mess; broken pieces of furniture carefully stacked in a corner, other items obviously salvaged against the far wall, a broom forlornly propped up against a gate-leaf table that exhibited a nasty and very fresh looking gash across its top. The God-Emperor winced; a flick of his pencil-wand, and the top was as good as new. One down, many, many to go...

Sitting cross legged on the carpet, he pulled a box towards him, neatly repaired kitchen chairs stacked behind him, next to a display cabinet that had regained its glazing. He looked in. Ah, ornaments, his favourite...not.

Six droopy shepherdesses later, he came across a carriage clock, an obvious family heirloom. His heart twinged with guilt; he really needed a proper place, a safe place for his experiments. Holes in ceilings were annoying but reparable, but this was...this was peoples' family history and he'd broken it. The distress he must have caused...well, he was just going to make sure he did a good job of mending it...

The last cog slipped neatly into place, its fixture tightening. He eyed his handiwork critically; no sign of wear on the cogs, the spring unbroken, yes, that should do it. Carefully, he wound it up, and it sprung to life, the regulator rocking back and forth, the cogs ticking smoothly past one another...perfect. He set the time...hmm, quarter past three in the morning, this had taken him longer than he'd thought. Now, should he set it to chime or not?

"It's never worked before," an awestruck voice said by his elbow. The God-Emperor startled, nearly dropping the newly mended clock. There, sitting next to him, was a little boy in stripy pyjamas, gazing up at him in fascination. "Hullo," he said grinning, and displaying his missing upper incisors.

"Hello," the God-Emperor said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Are you Santa?" the little boy asked.

"Erm...no," he replied, "I err...I'm a physicist and I was doing this experiment with zero-gravity and it went wrong." He watched the small boy desperately. Was he doing this right? He didn't have much contact with small children. "Well, it went alright...but it was more effective than I thought, and instead of getting a small pocket of null-gravity it, erm...grew and grew..."

The little boy nodded solemnly. "It was fun. I was being an astronaut with my space rocket," he held up the toy which looked to be in some distress, "but then I fell on the sofa, but my rocket fell on the floor...and then the end fell off." He looked up at the God-Emperor sadly.

"Well, I'm sure I can do something about that," the God-Emperor said with a smile, giving the toy a smart rap with his pencil-wand. The loose parts welded themselves back into place seamlessly before the awed owner's eyes. "Like magic," he breathed, "are you sure you're not Santa?"

"I'm just a physicist," the God-Emperor said, as he mended yet another droopy shepherdess.

"What about one of Santa's elves?" the little boy asked.

"Not even that..."

The God-Emperor steeled himself. How did Widow Weber's door manage to look more menacing than all the others? Well, he had a job to do. A click and the door opened on to the dark flat beyond. Oh thank goodness, Widow Weber was asleep, he'd be able to do this and get back out with her being none the wiser. Carefully, he crept in to assess the damage...hmm, more broken chairs...a three legged table...a badly dented table-la...

The lights snapped on, and something hard made sudden contact with his left shin. Yelping in surprise, he whirled to find a furious Widow Weber standing there wielding her broom as if it were a halberd. "You thoughtless lout!" she shrieked.

OOOOOO

His formal office at the Lodge was rather nice, a blend of the old and the new that had set the man from English Heritage tutting and frowning (though that could have been the obviously used ashtray on his desk), set in the Tudor part of the building, its large leaded window looking out over the formal walled garden; if he leaned back in his chair, he could see the Orangery.

Pale lime-washed wooden panelling and a beautifully painted sky ceiling kept the room feeling light and airy, even if the putti who flew across the ceiling trailing ribbons had a tendency to rest on the edges and peer down at him curiously while he worked.

The family portraits that hung around the room weren't quite so appreciative of the modern and very muggle technology he was using. They also didn't like the battle-scene that Carrow had gifted him either. Timothy had to admit he had his reservations too; it was extraordinarily noisy, and spent most of its time under a silencing charm, but that didn't detract from the terrifying vision of a colossus of a war-machine Carrow called a Titan marching ponderously across a distant horizon crushing all before it, its vast weapons firing with dazzling flashes of light.

It all contrasted sharply with the very expensive and very modern office furniture, all steel and glass. On the other side of the marble fireplace was a second desk, a recent addition, behind which sat a stressed looking Percy Weasley. Timothy eyed the younger man a moment; his typing had radically improved, but he had a feeling that Percy was never going to quite overcome his losing battle with the photocopier...or his terror of anything that contained a microprocessor.

He turned back to his own mountain of paperwork with a heavy sigh, turning to the lengthy report from Carrow's contact (more like spy) within the Muggle Liaison Department. The ill-will that was being stored up there was utterly breath-taking, and all because of the arrogance and incompetence of a few individuals. Even the contact wasn't happy about the situation, and he was a pure-blood. Should he bring this to Carrow's attention? Well, yes probably, the department would suddenly become highly effective virtually overnight, but then Carrow would have his hooks buried even more deeply into the Ministry.

Oh, what the hell.

He dumped the folder on the pile for Carrow's attention. Next one...hmm...bill to change inheritance rights of Wizengamot seats...he frowned. What was this about? He flicked through it carefully...this was the work of Dumbledore and his group...a proposal to increase the possible candidates who could inherit Wizengamot seats. He rubbed a hand down his face. This could be advantageous to Carrow's cause, bring more seats into play, increase his unspoken majority; but of course it worked both ways. He added a note for Carrow's immediate attention to the front...

"I cannot find Artemis," the familiar growl sounded just feet away. Timothy suppressed the urge to flinch, and turned in his seat to be confronted with a sea of braid, the Purgatus of St Seraphim slithering its way across the broad chest...he looked up at Carrow...who was scowling down at him, with almost...was that concern? Beyond him, Percy watched with wide eyes.

"What about..." Timothy began.

"I've even asked the archaeologists," Carrow continued, "she hasn't been near their trenches either, even the one around the back of the kitchen gardens."

Timothy closed his mouth with a clack. "The attics?" he suggested.

Carrow shook his head. "I checked; the tiger-proof wards are still intact."

Well, that was concerning; where had the giant fur-ball managed to get in now, maybe a...

The phone rang, stridently trilling in the silent space. The portraits glared and grumbled. "How terribly anti-social," a particularly formidable witch complained, "all this new fangled nonsense, we didn't need it in our day!" Her fellow portraits nodded and muttered in agreement.

Timothy shook his head, ignoring the grumbling Potter ancestors. "The Lodge. Can I help you?" he announced into the handset.

"Mr Carrow?" a frazzled male voice asked on the other end of the line.

Timothy blinked; it wasn't every day he was mistaken for his employer. "Erm, no, I'm Timothy Faulks, Mr Carrow's secretary."

"Oh...Mr Faulks," the voice wavered, "this is Geoffrey Sutton Junior School...erm, your ward, Felix Trebor, has brought a tiger into the school and..."

But Timothy wasn't really listening. Oh grief, Felix was such a handful. He'd already got into several fist fights with other students, mainly over attempts to bully him over his appearance, and then of course there was that time some bright spark had dared him to climb up the curtains in the assembly hall only for him to be caught half way up, and he'd only been there a couple of months.

"Felix took Artemis with him to school," he whispered to Carrow, a hand over the mouth piece.

Carrow stared back at him, expression unreadable. "I will go and retrieve her at once," he growled, turning on his heel, the hem of his leather great coat snapping around his heels.

"Wait," Timothy shouted desperately after him. "Oh...crap," he muttered to himself; how further traumatised could a bunch of school-children get? After all, they had just met a tiger; a close encounter with a leather clad over-enthusiastic sociopath should be nothing. "Mr Carrow is coming to pick Artemis up now," he told the panicking man.

"Artemis?" came the stressed reply.

"Yes," Timothy said, "the tiger...her name is Artemis."

oOo

Felix was the first thing he noticed as he shouldered his way through the annoyingly tiny door. The lad was slumped on a plastic chair and blatantly sulking, arms folded over his chest, ears back and bottom lip protruding, his tail twitching irritably. It was quite endearing.

Carrow hid his amusement as he looked round the classroom, ignoring the irritating gabbling of the man who'd introduced himself as the school secretary. He blinked in surprise; what were all those children...and their teacher, doing huddled up against the far wall like that; weren't they supposed to be having a class? What sort of school had he sent his ward to?

"I thought a lesson was supposed to be in progress," he frowned down disapprovingly at the nervous wreck of a secretary.

The shaken man made an inarticulate sound, pulling on his tie. "...the tiger," he squeaked, "there's a tiger in the classroom..."

"She's quite domesticated, I assure you," Carrow told him, "very sweet natured, and good with children."

The school secretary went a peculiar custard colour, and stared at him as if he were quite mad. What a strange little man.

He strode past him to where Artemis sat peering back at him over her shoulder. She had propped her front paws on the window sill, and was happily watching a class outside who appeared to be doing calisthenics of some description, though a few of the children seemed rather distracted by the sight of Artemis peering through the window at them. She seemed quite content, so he left her for the moment.

And now for the little trouble-maker, he thought fondly. He crouched down in front of the lad, who seemed to droop down even further, peering up at him nervously. It was on some level, he felt, a moment as important as any battle he'd ever fought.

"Felix," he said as gently as he could, "I would like to know why you brought Artemis to school with you, please."

Felix was staring up at him now, green eyes wide, looking on the verge of tears. "They wouldn't believe me," his voice hitched, "they didn't believe I lived with a tiger and a monster-slaying giant in a castle with a moat. They kept on calling me a liar," he was crying in earnest now, "even Miss Therwick wouldn't believe me, so I had to...to show them somehow." He hiccupped and sniffled, rubbing at his eyes.

Carrow gazed down happily at his charge. "Ah, the revealing of uncomfortable truths; 'tis righteous work, young man, and worthy indeed. I approve whole-heartedly of your motives; you just need to work a little at perfecting your execution..."

Felix nodded tearfully.

"I was very concerned," Carrow continued, "when I could not find Artemis in her usual favourite haunts; it was only by good fortune that I happened to be in the office when the school rang." He looked severely at the sobbing child, and then sighed. "In future, ask me, and I'm sure suitable arrangements can be made...even for the monster slaying; though I must say the Lodge is more of a manor house these days rather than a castle...but it does indeed have a moat, which I would really like to re-flood and populate...maybe with sharks." He gave Felix a smile.

To his utter surprise, the boy launched himself forward flinging his arms around his neck, sobbing apologies into his high collar. Carrow wasn't entirely sure what to do in these situations, Timothy normally handled such things, but trusting to luck and the grace of the God-Emperor, he wrapped his arms gently around his charge and stood up, holding him carefully against his braid encrusted chest. The sobbing slowly began to reduce.

A clattering sound announced Artemis's clambering on top of the teacher's desk, the calisthenics class having departed inside. He turned to this Miss...Therwick with his most severe scowl, the one he usually reserved for the most corrupt and spineless of Planetary Governors. "Now, I do believe you have a class to teach, do you not," he growled menacingly, "and I expect you to excel at it; only the best for my little boy, after all..."

oOo

The waiting room of the Veterinary Surgery was small, to him at least, filled with the scents of nervous animals intermingled with odours he normally associated with an Apothecarium; it was a strange and unique contrast.

Carrow blinked in surprise as he looked round at the few people waiting their creatures; hopefully, this...establishment would be able to provide Artemis with the medical check-up and inoculations that Miss Phillips-Worthington had been very insistent that she needed.

"I am here for an appointment for my cat," he announced to the wild-eyed receptionist, ducking down slightly so he could see through her hatch into her little cubby-hole office better. Despite being rather poky and crammed, it looked rather homely with a spider-plant sitting on top of a filing cabinet and a calendar on the wall featuring an improbably fluffy grey kitten sporting a blue bow. The poor creature looked rather cross about it too.

He quirked an eyebrow at the gaping receptionist.

"Erm...erm..." the young lady finally found her voice, "what...what...err name was it, sir?" she quavered.

"Mr Carrow, and my cat's name is Artemis." Carrow hid his sigh of annoyance. Meat bags...the tendency for their brains to cease all higher functions in his presence had become old very quickly. Timothy was such a refreshing change, particularly when he lost his temper.

The young lady picked nervously away at her cogitator for a moment. "Ah, yes," she giggled nervously, "erm...10.45am...Artemis Carrow...if you'd like to take a seat, sir."

Carrow eyed the provided seating with distaste. Feeling very put-upon, he sat on one of the incredibly uncomfortable and annoyingly flimsy chairs with an annoyed sigh.

The other inhabitants of the Waiting Room jerked in surprise, clutching their various pets. Artemis sidled behind his legs, peering round his knees shyly at these strangers. The strangers stared back, wide-eyed and terrified. Carrow scowled. It was as if they'd never seen a feline before.

A stupid but friendly looking dog padded across, tail wagging tentatively to say hello to Artemis. He watched carefully as the two animals sniffed delicately at one another, ignoring the ridiculous gibbering of the dog's owner. If there was any boisterous nonsense he would soon put an end to it.

Was that another dog? The thing perched on the elderly gentleman's lap was small and hairy, watching him intently with beady black eyes. And he wasn't even sure what was in that plastic carry-case, it had been squeaking incessantly when he'd arrived. Oh, and a small stripy feline, the fur on its back standing upright in a ridge. He sighed heavily; how long was he going to have to wait?

A door to the side of the reception opened, and a short stout woman in a white tunic and grey trousers stepped through, took one look at Artemis and blanched. "Erm...Artemis Carrow," she stuttered.

Ah, finally. Carrow bounced to his feet, the annoying meat-sacks flinching back in their chairs. Ignoring them, he strode through to the Veterinary Surgery Proper, ushering Artemis in before him.

A tall and gawky man with thinning blonde hair turned from washing his hands, freezing as Carrow scooped the rather bewildered Artemis up and placed her on the examination table. "I have been informed that my cat needs a medical examination...and possibly inoculations." He stared at the man expectantly.

The vet looked frozen in place, staring at Artemis, who, now she had settled down, was delicately washing a paw, and then at him. What had got into people today? Why were they being so...so ridiculous?

"She's a tiger," the vet finally found his voice, "I only treat domestic animals, cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea-pigs, hamsters, gerbils...the odd chinchilla...you know...pets."

Carrow scowled. "Of course Artemis is a domestic animal, she lives in my house, and she is a feline, a cat. Therefore, she is obviously a domestic cat and falls under your perview."

Artemis pawed at his sleeve, begging for attention, gazing up at him adoringly with her big blue eyes. As he ruffled the fur behind her ears, his rage at the vet dissipated to merely annoyed; she was such a wonderfully soothing animal, an excellent and loyal companion.

"Look," the vet scrunched his face up in exasperation, "she's not a domestic cat. I'll prove it to you," he said, when Carrow began to scowl. He disappeared into the back room, reappearing seconds later with an armful of grey fur, which looked round with bleary yellow eyes, one fore-leg bound in a sausage of white bandage. "This is Blossom, she is a fully grown domestic cat, specifically a Persian," he juggled her gently into a slightly more comfortable position, carefully nursing the injured leg, "she's a bit groggy at the moment, recovering from the anaesthetic. But you can see there's something of a difference in size and appearance. So, Artemis may be...domesticated, but she's a tiger, and that means she needs to see a big-cat specialist."

Carrow considered the matter for a moment, looking between the two radically different felines, who were becoming increasingly interested in one another. The vet hurriedly took Blossom away to continue her recuperation in peace.

"But they must have the same physiology, just scaled up," Carrow pointed out, "surely it would not be beyond..."

"Absolutely not," the vet snapped, as he emerged from the back room looking rather pale, "that would be like a paediatrician giving you an examination. They might be able to make generalisations but they wouldn't be able to go into specifics. No, Artemis needs to see a specialist..." He frantically grabbed the phone, flipping through the address book next to it. "The local zoo has some big cats...and a vet who deals with them...I'll see if I can get you an appointment with her..."

"Or I could save you the trouble, and just go to this...zoo today," Carrow suggested.

"What, just walk through the front gates, with Artemis in tow?!" The vet looked appalled. "What a stupid idea, do you want to get her sh...oh good morning, it's George Sparrow from Bloomfield Vetinary Practice. I was wondering whether you could help me, I've had a patient today who needs to see a specialist...yes...no...a tiger...seriously...no, no he's quite whole...probably not all there, no..."

Carrow sighed heavily, gently massaging Artemis's neck; this vet's business was turning out to be considerably more complicated than he thought.

OOOOOO

Rita Skeeter shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously, checking her shoulder bag and her camera. Had she remembered everything? Had she got spare quills? More film for the camera? Suzie Boo? She swallowed nervously; this was a big tip one of her contacts in the DMLE had passed on to her. Only minutes ago a poor owl had practically ricocheted off her kitchen table, and given its message's nature it was almost certain that Carrow or at least his team would be involved. This was it, a golden opportunity to emulate those muggle journalists, going into dangerous places, getting into the thick of the action and reporting it back, so the public can know what actually happened, get a real understanding, a feel for what it was like to be there. She'd been so impressed reading all those muggle papers Faulks had shown her, all those people risking their lives for their stories. It really threw the Daily Prophet into the shade, made her aware of what a small pond she really swam in. Why write articles about the Malfoy Summer Solstice ball when she could be like...like...Kate Adie...yes...

...and so here she stood, near the DMLE's departmental apparition point, hoping- praying that her tip was as hot as it claimed, trying not to attract the attention of the Aurors as they came and went on assignment.

If only she could hide as a beetle- but she highly doubted she'd be able to explain away her sudden appearance, and there was no way she was going to lose the advantage her animagus form gave her, not a chance...

At the sound of familiar footsteps, she peered out of her hiding place in the shadows. Ah, finally...Faulks was striding along with a group of his entourage. She recognised the familiar sandy hair of Wulfric, the two women...what were their names...Juno and Athena, and that short and scrawny, wiry man, she wasn't sure of his name, carrying a...actually she wasn't sure what it was...a funny back pack with tubes and things, all terribly muggle, as were the ladies' weapons, and they were openly carrying them in the Ministry of Magic. The small team of Aurors with them were eyeing the unfamiliar paraphernalia dubiously; well, that wouldn't last long. And wasn't that the Weasley boy, Percival, something like that, talking to Faulks? She frowned, adjusting her glasses; he looked so nervous, and she had to admit, rather panicky. "Nothing to worry about, I'm sure you'll pick it up with a little practise. Seriously, the photocopier is quite harmless, just a little fiddly to operate...sometimes." He gave Percival a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Weasley nodded shakily and retreated.

Faulks spotted her, his face going scarily blank, eyes like chips of ice. "Excuse me a moment," she heard him tell the lead Auror. She steeled herself as he strode over, trying to look as calm and professional as possible.

"Ms Skeeter," he greeted her, "what can I assist you with today?"

Rita shook his hand as firmly as she could manage. "I want to come with you...on your assignment, so I can write a first-hand account for the Prophet...put the work of the DMLE in a positive light, give the public a better understanding of their work..." she smiled tightly, "I understand it's something muggle journalists regularly do..." She trailed off, willing him to understand just how important this was to her.

Faulk's expression barely changed as he considered her request, his gaze taking in her equipment and her attire. She'd gone to some pains to make sure she would be ready for anything, even going so far as buying waterproof travelling robes and boots that weren't enchanted, in a drab grey. Apparently some magical creatures were sensitive to such things, and would hunt and attack the wearer of overly magical garments, making their capture or just observation rather interesting; she had a suspicion that Dark Wizards might have similar skills; better safe than sorry.

"It will be dangerous and unpredictable," he said after a moment, ignoring the impatient Auror stood behind him, "I can't guarantee that I can keep you safe. You'll have to be prepared to defend yourself at a moment's notice."

Rita nodded grimly.

"Can we go now?" the lead Auror asked sarcastically.

"In your own time, Auror Hewitt," Faulks replied coldly.

Auror Hewitt glared.

oOo

Carrow shifted uncomfortably on the small plastic chair scowling down at the exam paper. When he'd gleefully decided to stamp all over the Mechanicum's monopoly on technology, and, he was increasingly coming to realise, the underlying science, he didn't realise it was going to result in something like this, being forced to sit still on a tiny flimsy chair, at a tiny flimsy desk, in a room with lots of anxious little meat-bags for three...whole...hours.

He fiddled with his pen and the holder he'd made from split bamboo and elastic bands. It worked surprisingly well, and had certainly reduced the frustration of fiddly too-short writing implements. An invigilator frowned at him as he twanged a band; he hunched down under the glare, grumbling to himself. He turned his attention back to the exam paper... the differences between igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary rocks...three different points for each type...hmmm...

The Mechanicum; they had turned the tools that built a civilization into a religion, a cult...and then it had fossilised, atrophied into this wizened thing viciously guarded by those stupid, blind...cultists, hoarding all that knowledge and artefacts to themselves, even though they didn't really understand them. Too jealous to let anyone else have a go; he growled softly to himself.

The invigilator cleared her throat meaningfully.

oOo

The port-key deposited them a mile from their target near a copse of trees, their target, a dilapidated stable building, clearly visible in the distance; a quick briefing, and the team had apparated into position, leaving her behind. The lead Auror had been particularly patronising about it, leaving Rita grinding her teeth in fury; if defenceless muggles could go into dangerous situations, then so could she...and Faulks had just watched with that cold mask of his, and then winked just as he apparated away.

Well, stuff staying here...her view of the world shrank and fragmented, grass stalks and dandelions looming large around her in all their faceted glory. Scrambling up a stem of grass, she shook her wings out, taking flight, whirring in and out of the grass and scrubby bits of hedge and landing neatly on the rough wall of the stable building, just above Faulks.

They were crouched silently on either side of a rotten looking door, sun bleached and peeling paint, wands and weapons held ready. What were they waiting for? She circled on the wall impatiently...the door burst in and they scrambled through in an organised stampede fanning out into the gloomy space beyond. Rita followed them inside, via the underside of the top of the door frame. There was a strange quality to the musty chilliness that the building breathed out that couldn't entirely be explained away by its derelict state. Into a cacophony of noise and movement which left her disoriented, she flittered up towards the rafters as quickly as she could, trying to find somewhere safe to observe the heaving fight underneath.

Crawling across a dusty rafter, she could finally discern some pattern to the mess beneath. Faulks locked in a close and desperate struggle with a muscular man with tattoos up his arms, Auror Hewitt duelling two at a time, Wulfric punching someone full on in the face, a freckle-faced youth lying too still on the ground, a nasty gash to his temple, the sound of a rifle-butt connecting hard with someone's skull as Chuddy worked his way through the desperate throng, the crack of a pistol, a female bellow and the sound of flesh hitting flesh hard as Juno flattened a wannabe thug's nose. Beyond the seething madness, stood a pinch faced young man watching calculatingly. Beside him...she shifted to get a better view...a ritual circle of some kind, the runes incomprehensible to her, she'd never got on with them at Hogwarts, and at its centre a young woman terrified and naked as the day she was born, and beyond, cowering, forgotten in a corner two more girls who'd pulled some rotten sacking over themselves to hide their embarrassment, watching with wild eyes full of animal terror. The smell of blood, and sweat and desperation permeated the small space, overlaid with the metallic tingle of spent magic, and something darker; if she had been human at that moment she would have sneezed.

There was a shadow of movement in her periphery vision, masses of long legs and multiple eyes, her instincts hurriedly flinging her into space, beating her wings frantically as she tried to get as far away from the threat as she could. A spider; oh, how she hated the hideous things, and that one had nearly got her too! She shuddered in disgust. It wasn't something the literature really mentioned, the dangers of predators mistaking you for a tasty snack. At least her fear and loathing of spiders was a socially acceptable phobia. What if she was stuck turning into a...an aphid, the thought of having to try and explain an overwhelming fear of ladybird larva was just...awkward...

A wave of magical pressure zipped past her, tossing her around in its wake, quickly followed by another that she barely managed to scramble out of the way of. She desperately needed somewhere safe to settle; instinct drove her on, and she dived towards the nearest shadowy nook she could find. Her refuge moved under her as it dodged and rolled like a ship in a heavy sea. She crept deeper into her new sanctuary, hair brushing against her carapace...a textured leather collar and black worsted wool...oh...oh, Merlin...she was clinging to Faulk's collar. A familiar voice, felt more than heard, distorted by closeness, swore expressively as the lurching became worse. Rita clung as best she could; oh dear, how was she going to explain this? She'd wanted to get close to the action, but this was bordering on the ridiculous. She fluttered nervously, as Faulks lurched under her and engaged the next opponent, a man who swore and threatened and shrieked as much as he fought, desperately trying to keep Faulks's visibly superior skills at bay, dodging and twisting until, with an over powered bludgeoning curse, he blasted a large hole in the side of the stable building. Ducking and turning, he tried to position himself closer to escape, but Faulks was close after him, wary to his game. Desperately throwing himself to one side, the scrawny man kept on going, shrinking and twisting until...Rita clicked her mandibles in surprise...an animagus, a fox animagus. The rusty coloured creature dived for the rough new opening, easily leaping over the pile of rubble, disappearing into the yard in a rush, his thick bottle-brush of a tail trailing after him.

Faulks snarled with rage. "Wulfric," he bellowed.

"I'm on it," the werewolf shouted back, as he leapt through the ragged hole out into the yard beyond in hot pursuit. Faulks turned looking for the next combatant, but the fight was all but over, groaning soon-to-be-prisoners lying on the floor, suffering a variety of spell damage, some unconscious, someone shouting into the ringing silence as he struggled against a couple of the Aurors who were wrestling him to the ground and into cuffs.

She felt Faulks tense beneath her. "Stop! Don't move," he snarled at Auror Hewitt.

The man froze in the act of reaching out to the young woman sitting in the middle of the ritual circle. "but..." he tried protesting.

"Silence," Faulks snapped, "nobody move."

The Aurors stared in suspicion, though Rita noticed that Faulks's people didn't look the least surprised. How often did they do things like this? The thick oppressive silence closed over them all like a blanket.

One of the girls stifled a sob, as she shifted slightly under her makeshift covering.

An Auror twitched nervously at some unseen movement.

The little wiry man with the strange backpack thing shifted slightly, his boot scuffing softly on the floor.

Faulks ignored it all, turning slowly on the spot, eyes closed, hand on his pistol. What was he searching for? Rita watched in nervous puzzlement as the stable turned by. Was there something they were all missing? And then he moved, drawing the pistol so rapidly, that if she could have blinked she would have missed it, and pointed it at...the shivering young woman still sitting in the middle of the ritual circle, a clicking sound echoing around the enclosed space.

"What are you doing?" Auror Hewitt exclaimed. "She needs help!"

"Saving all our lives," Faulks growled, "there's something in here with us."

Auror Hewitt sputtered indignantly. "What? Bloody ridiculous!" he glared at Faulks before turning to the girl. "What's your name, miss?"

The girl wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, shivering, her eyes darting around, rather like a trapped animal Rita thought suspiciously, possibly too like...

"V...V...Vicky...my name is Vicky," she stuttered frantically looking between the Auror and Faulks, "wha...what's going on?" she asked desperately.

"I'm not entirely sure," Auror Hewitt said with a frown, "anyway," he gave her a smile, "take my hand and we'll have you out of here in a jiffy," he reached towards her with a kind smile. Rita watched with dread as the girl reached towards him...there was just something off about her smile...her eyes...she fluttered in agitation against Faulks's collar...don't do it, don't touch her, she tried to scream but the clicks of her mandibles were barely audible...

...a staccato of bangs...one...two...small plumes of blood flowered on the girl's chest...she turned, her eyes glowing inhumanly yellow, her mouth opening far too wide in a jagged toothed smile, a mass of twisted horns erupting from her head...Auror Hewitt recoiled in terror as her body cracked and twisted, skin rippling and distorting in unnatural ways, an outraged hissing shriek...another staccato of bangs...one eye disappearing in a spray of gore...a chunk torn from the remains of her...its neck as it tried to swarm towards the source of its agony on too many legs only to be brought up short by the ritual circle which still held firm despite everything...one final shot straight between the eyes...the back of its head disappearing in a spray of pulp and blood...with a last furious hiss it slumped to the floor, the life fading from its remaining eye, thick black blood pooling around its twisted form.

"Chuddy, if you would," Faulks said his voice hard and cold in the ringing silence.

The smaller man eagerly charged forward, quickly readying his curious weapon. Rita eyed it dubiously, it was obviously muggle but it wasn't a gun, so what did it do? It reeked of chemicals and the flame at the nozzle of the gun thing was not reassuring. Chuddy pulled the trigger, swathing the twisted corpse with a wash of flames with a satisfied smirk. The hideous thing burnt with a smell of rubber and manure, hissing and popping as it did so.

"You idiot," Faulks snarled at the prone Auror.

"Wha...what the hell was that?" Auror Hewitt screeched from his sprawl on the floor, "what's going on?" He pointed a finger at the burning twisted thing, "how the hell do I explain that?!"

Rita felt Faulks tense and sigh, obviously furious and exasperated. "That, Auror Hewitt, was a minor example of the sort of...beings Mr Carrow has been trained to hunt down and destroy. How you decide to write this incident up in your report...well, that is entirely up to you..."

Rita stared at the horrible burning thing, a cold feeling crawling in her guts; that was a minor example of what the Monster was really designed to predate

oOo

Carrow curled his lip in disgust; he'd seen this diagram, a right-angle triangle, each side extended into a square, inscribed on an altar dedicated to the Ominissiah once. He hadn't understood its significance at the time, but now, he could quite cheerfully snap their spindly little necks and pull their mechadendrites out by the roots. Pythagoras's theorem, venerated as a mystical symbol...he highly doubted the cog-boys had actually understood its significance either. He sighed heavily, finished his answer and turned to the next question...ooh, quadratic equations, his favourite...

oOo

Rita shifted slightly to the left, trying to get a better view of the hole in the side of the stable building and the rubble that was strewn across the yard. She was quite new to this photography thing; sometimes her shots were quite good, but other times...hmm, maybe from the side, but then she'd have to compensate for the relatively bright sky...huh...if she ducked down a bit...yes, that should do it.

The sounds of voices and approaching footsteps increased and Rita looked up in curiosity. The Aurors must be ready to start removing the prisoners into custody then. She'd left them several minutes ago, wasn't entirely sure how long the entire incident had taken, but hopefully they'd assume she'd walked over from the port-key point. She positioned herself near the entrance, maybe some shots of the prisoners being led away, she doubted she'd be let inside now to get one of the ritual circle with its twisted charred corpse; she'd just have to take what she could get.

The actually conscious prisoners were carefully led out in twos; most were resigned to their fate, but of course, there's always one noisy one. Rita sighed as the thuggish man with the tattoos started swearing and struggling as he spotted her; oh well. She took a picture while the Aurors restrained him with more conjured ropes and carefully placed stinging hexes, until he looked like nothing more than a giant grub with a human head.

"What's she doing here?" Auror Hewitt snarled as the shouting man was apparated away to the DMLE and a nice quiet holding-cell. Faulks looked over Auror Hewitt's shoulder giving her a faint trace of a smile and to Rita's disbelief a wink. Did he know where she'd been? Oh, how embarrassing.

"I walked here," Rita said flatly to the Auror, doing her best to keep her expression blank.

"Scuse us," a voice came from behind them, and the two men shifted, letting an Auror by levitating one of the unconscious thugs, a man who's personality Rita was sure was much improved by his current condition.

"Walked," Auror Hewitt snapped, "you can't possibly have walked all that way in twenty minutes. It's nearly a mile!" He snorted in disbelief.

Faulks rolled his eyes, as the two living female victims were gently led out, now wrapped in hastily conjured robes. "Don't be ridiculous, Hewitt, any healthy adult can walk a mile in fifteen minutes."

Rita shook her head with a sigh; unbelievable, people who apparated everywhere. It's a wonder he'd managed to pass the new fitness tests. Raising her camera, she sighted on the two girls...maybe this one would do...

oOo

Shifting uncomfortably on the flimsy little chair, Carrow checked through his paper, trying to ignore its groans of protest. Had he managed to answer everything...nothing missed? He wondered how his apprentice was doing. Though Timothy was very able, it was still early days in his training and he didn't quite yet have the instincts that would keep him alive as a fully fledged Inquisitor. There was nothing Carrow could do about it though, so he would have to trust in the God-Emperor and Timothy's common sense...

"Time everyone. If you could finish your writing and put down your pens please," the Invigilator announced. There was a flurry of rustling as the papers were collected and people stretched in their chairs and shook out aching hands, relieved that finally it was all over...until next year.

"Your first year?" the Invigilator asked as she collected his paper.

"Indeed," Carrow murmured with a small smile.

"Well, good luck and see you next year," she smiled cheerfully, moving off down the row of desks.

OOOOOO

The Senior Hit-Wizard from the ICW scratched the back of his head, brow furrowed as he checked through the file dealing with the latest (that they knew of) disaster caused by that English monster Carrow, and this time he was having to interview Muggle military, the poor sods having become entangled in the giant lunatic's latest rampage. Having to deal with traumatised non-magicals was not his idea of fun...

"Sir," his adjunct asked, "isn't Mr Carrow's secretary called Faulks, you know, the skinny crazy guy with the weird taste in clothes."

The Senior Hit-Wizard looked over his adjunct's shoulder, Corporal Matthew Faulks...oh dear...

The young man who entered the interrogation suite did bare a passing resemblance to Carrow's secretary of questionable sanity though he was more stockily built, slightly shorter, obviously trim in his smartly tailored uniform, hiding his discomfort behind a mask of strict professionalism. As they went through the formal introductions the Senior Hit-Wizard's foreboding was further reinforced. The Corporal was wary of them, distrustful even, though he hid it well, but at no point did he express surprise at who or what they were. He had to know. "I take it you are familiar with the Magical World, then?" he asked.

Corporal Faulks stared at him a moment, "to an extent...my younger brother is a wizard."

The adjunct, not always blessed with tact, blurted out, "And you're not jealous?"

Corporal Faulks gave him a funny look. "Well, no. We all have our talents after all. I've always been rather better than him at team sports...and frankly magic seems to have made my brother's life more complicated than anything...and not necessarily in a good way."

The adjunct seemed disbelieving at the muggle's response, utterly oblivious to the Senior Hit-Wizard's glare, who gritted his teeth in frustration; given the circumstances they needed to tread carefully. "If we can get on with the interview please," he snapped at his underling. Pulling out a wad of photographs from the folder, he quickly leafed through them, selecting a particularly good close-up of the Monster's secretary in all his scarred, gore-splattered, leather clad glory, plonking it down in front of the Corporal. "Do you recognise this man?" he asked, tapping the picture with a finger.

Corporal Faulks stared at the image intently. "That's my little brother," he finally said, his voice tinged with sadness.

The adjunct's head snapped up, his mouth open in shock. "Wha...wait, you're the Bone Butcher's brother?" he demanded wide-eyed. The Senior Hit-Wizard rolled his eyes, exasperated at the other's turn-about in attitude.

"Bone Butcher?" Corporal Faulks said slowly, "I've nev..."

"Did he really kill a nundu with his bare teeth at the age of six?" the adjunct leaned forward excitedly.

"Ermm...no," Corporal Faulks gave the other man a strange look, unconsciously shuffling his chair further away from him, "I think I would have noticed if he'd molested any giant, disease breathing, jaguar like cats then, particularly since we lived in a particularly boring part of Staffordshire at the time."

"Oh," the adjunct's face fell.

"He got bitten by the school gerbil once if that's any help," Corporal Faulks offered, "seriously, the reason my brother is like this," he held up the photo so they could see, " is all down to that dangerous lunatic Carrow." He gestured to the pile of photographs, "well, you've seen him...what he's capable of..."

"Yes, Carrow," the Senior Hit-Wizard sighed, "tell us about Carrow. Start with when you first met him...and don't leave anything out no matter how small or insignificant you think it might be..."

OOOOOO

Ron shifted uncomfortably; he'd managed to wrench his shoulder at the last Defence Club meeting. They'd been having a melee style fight, no holds barred, absolutely brilliant, but then he'd gone and landed awkwardly. He hadn't really felt anything at the time, but now...he winced and shifted again.

"Mr Weasley, if you would stand still, please," Professor McGonagall frowned at him, "we wish to make a good impression after all!" She glared at the remains of Hermione's hair, lips narrowed with displeasure.

He sighed heavily to himself, Hermione shooting him a sympathetic look; this was going to be a very long evening. The shoulder twinged again. Should he take it to Madam Pomfrey? He shuddered at the thought of the interrogation he would be subjected to and then the following lecture. Sure, he wouldn't be in any pain afterwards, but honestly, Madam Pomfrey was getting seriously scary when anyone from the DC turned up in the Infirmary.

"Alright?" Hermione murmured.

"Just my shoulder," he muttered back.

"I've got some extra-strong bruise balm in my trunk, might be worth a try," Hermione said quietly, "bet Neville would put it on for you later."

"Thanks," he gave her a small grin.

"Neville Longbottom!" came a furious shout. Ron and Hermione peered round. There stood a slightly guilty looking juvenile bear, a furious Professor McGonagall standing before him, hands on hips. "Your human form, now, young man."

Neville rapidly reverted.

"Thank you, Mr Longbottom," the irate Professor snapped.

Ron and Hermione did their best to hide their amusement, before their mood slipped back into boredom, as the school waited in its entirety on the steps of the main doors for the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to arrive.

"I've got everything prepared for that thing we discussed," Hermione said softly. Ron's head whipped round, he had to admit he'd forgotten about it...but...oh, of course...Halloween.

"Uhmm...Hermione, is it wise? I mean the school's going to be crawling with people," he said, looking at her dubiously.

"Which means everyone will be too preoccupied to notice us." She gave a small smirk. Ron winced; he was coming to realise that that expression only meant trouble and strife to those Hermione had set her sights on.

"I suppose," he agreed, dubiously moving his shoulder carefully. "What are we going to do at the next meeting?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"How about target practise?" Hermione suggested, "we've got all those crossbows Su Li discovered now..."

"Look!" a Ravenclaw shouted, "over there, above the trees! What is it?"

Ron sighed, looking where the noisy idiot had pointed. He squinted at the rapidly approaching dot...was that a muggle plane?

"So...the house-elves managed to mend them all right?" he asked as he watched the dot resolve into a flying...he wasn't quite sure...

"Oh yes," Hermione agreed, "we should have enough to go round. At least we can work on our aim while we're waiting to get proper guns."

Ron nodded distractedly. "Is that what I think it is?"

Hermione stared with growing disbelief at the approaching object. "It's a giant flying carriage drawn by giant flying horses." She stared at the powder blue conveyance in mild revulsion. "Why did they have to paint it such a vile colour?"

Ron shrugged; it certainly wasn't his cup-of-tea, but he wasn't exactly an expert on these sorts of things, mainly living in camo these days, with not even a trace of Chuddley Cannons orange. He sighed wistfully to himself, as the enormous carriage settled on the lawn with a thump, the huge horses snorting and stamping their hooves, their breath misting in the frosty air.

"Might as well have a huge flashing target on it," Hermione muttered. Ron couldn't help but grin as the door opened and steps unfolded, gilded twiddly things, more decorative than anything else. A huge lady eased her way out and down the steps followed by a gaggle of boys and girls clad in silky blue robes, with shoulder capes that fluttered in the stiff breeze that whisked in off the lake.

They didn't look very warm.

"She's almost as large as Professor Carrow," Ron commented too loudly. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and Ron ducked his head, blushing.

"Huh, doubt any of them will be joining us for our morning run." Hermione glared at the Beauxbatons students in disgust as the Headmaster greeted Madam Maxime to Hogwarts, and invited her and her students inside to warm up. The students were pale and immaculately turned out, looking as if they'd never ever had to lift a single perfectly manicured finger in their lives.

"Might surprise us," Ron said dubiously, "but I wouldn't hold your breath. I mean, look at that blonde lad at the back, I bet he'd faint if he had to face down an acromantula with just a knife."

"At least he'd make a useful distraction," Hermione suggested, "you could get a decent kill-strike in while the Acromantula was eating him."

"True, true," Ron nodded rolling his shoulder, trying to stop it cramping in the chilly air, "now if only the Durmstrang lot would hurry up and arrive..."

But it was not to be; half an hour of standing in the cold later, a scowling and uncomfortable Ron watched unimpressed as the masts of the Durmstrang ship rose majestically from the surface of the Black Lake.

"About ruddy time," he growled softly, glaring at the tall and shifty looking man with a silly looking goatee who sauntered down the gangplank. A dozen students followed after him, all clad in sensible looking red robes with fur lined cloaks. They still looked weedy to Ron's eyes; one of them actually flinched when he'd glared at them.

At least they got to go in the warm now.

oOo

"To your actual house tables, please." Professor Snape glared at them as the Defence Club tried to join Greg and Millie at the Slytherin table.

"Yes sir," Ron meekly said to his almost-uncle, giving his Slytherin comrades an apologetic shrug. He trailed sadly over to the Gryffindor table, Hermione, Neville and Colin Creevy following in his wake.

"Well...blast," Hermione said, "looks like we won't be able to bash out the obstacle course plans now..."

"What is this..."

"Could it be..."

Ron whipped round, wary and puzzled.

"A long lost Weasley..." George dramatically clasped his hands to his chest.

"The prodigal son returned to the fold..." Fred pantomimed joyous tears.

"And look how he's grown," George sighed.

"And filled out too," Fred added.

George nodded sagely. "Mum's going to be revolting about it...and then she'll try and feed him up."

"You pair of daft sods," Ron shook his head at his older brothers' antics, "honestly, you saw me this morning."

The Twins looked at one another, their mood suddenly switching to sombre. "Actually Ron, it's been over three weeks since you last sat at the Gryffindor table for an entire meal," Fred said, George nodding in agreement. "Every other table, but this one; in fact, I reckon you've spent more time with the Slytherins than here. And as for this morning, we saw you charge up to your dorm covered in mud and laden with a giant back-pack full of Merlin knows what. We didn't actually get to speak to you."

Ron stared at them, guilt tugging at his mind. "Erm..." He shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

"It's okay," Fred said, raising a placating hand.

"Seriously, we understand you've got a serious hobby," George said.

"Even more than Quidditch," Fred commented.

"We've been doing those...extra projects," George leaned forward conspiratorially, "for Uncle Sev."

"So we understand, we do. Just don't forget..." Fred continued.

"We're your brothers," they chorused.

Ron laughed uneasily. "Don't worry, I won't."

"Everything all right, Hermione?" Neville suddenly asked.

"Yes," Hermione said from where she sat, twisted round to watch the rest of the tables, "just checking Su Li is alright, you know how she can get."

The Twins winced. "She's got serious issues," Fred said darkly.

George nodded. "She's not really safe in a school full of children," he said grimly.

They watched the unassuming looking Ravenclaw for a moment, but she seemed quite settled between her minders, despite the unsettling proximity of the Beauxbatons students.

"Oh, look who it is," a disgruntled voice snarked from Ron's left. He turned to find Seamus and Dean glaring at the DC contingent.

"Oh, err...hey, guys," Neville greeted them with a nervous smile.

Seamus scowled. "Decided to hang around with your actual House mates for once? Nice of you."

"Seriously, it's not like that, not at all," Ron raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Why don't you two come and join the Defence Club as well," Hermione leaned forward, a slightly manic gleam in her eyes, "we're always looking for new members."

"We're not that crazy," Seamus said flatly.

"We like being alive," Dean added, "unlike some idiots."

Undeterred, Hermione turned to the Twins. "What about you two?" she asked.

"Ermm...just no..." Fred and George shifted away slightly down the bench, "we've got other things to do," one twin explained, "we're really not into this...stabby...shouty...shooty sort of thing at all."

"Exactly" his brother said, "more the subtly art of enchantment, sleight-of-hand, moving in the shadows, pranking..."

Ron shook his head sadly; if only they would try it, they would see just how wrong they were.

The food arrived at that moment, effectively stifling the conversation as the students, hungry after so long in the cold, tucked into dishes familiar and not so familiar. "What's that?" Ron asked of a particularly strange looking stew.

Hermione swallowed her mouthful of beef stew. "Bouillabaisse," she said. Ron looked at her blankly. "It's French," she elaborated, "had it on holiday before, it's really nice. Try some," she encouraged.

Ron looked at it dubiously. "I think I'll pass for the moment."

"...how did your summer go, Nev," drifted across the table, "we haven't really seen enough of you to ask," Dean said, managing to mask his sarcasm almost completely.

"Well umm...it was okay," Neville replied, just as the first rubber duck hit the edge of a soup tureen and skittered off down the table. A few more followed it as Ron hastily pulled out an old golf umbrella he kept shrunk in his pocket for just this eventuality. And then the trickle turned into a flood of football sized pale blue ducks with gleaming red eyes, greeted with shrieks and yelps of surprise from the foreign students.

"What sort of barbarian place is this?" a particularly outraged Beauxbatons student shrieked as she leapt up from her place at the Ravenclaw table, shielding her head with one arm as she fumbled for her wand.

Ron and Hermione watched the blonde girl in mild amusement. "Drama queen," Hermione decided, turning back to her meal. Ron shook his head as Ravenclaw table, now a sea of floating books and experimental conjured umbrellas, was pelted by a particularly hard squall of rubber ducks. He narrowed his eyes at the Durmstrang students who currently sat among the Slytherin students, many desperately holding their cloaks over their heads or conjuring shields. Was that Victor Krum, star Seeker of the national Bulgarian Squad? He blinked in surprise. Maybe Greg and Millie could introduce him, see if he could get an autograph. Maybe something good would come of this stupid tournament after all.

"...best summer ever really," Neville was saying, "I ermm...I pranked Uncle Algie," he gave a sheepish grin, "got him right and proper too."

"What did you do?" Dean asked.

"Oh I, err...hid in his wardrobe while he was having a bath and then...then," he chuckled nervously, "I jumped out at him as Grizzly when he opened it. Screamed like anything he did, and ran out of the bedroom...so I err, chased him down the landing and down the stairs, and erm...well, Gran's luncheon club was just coming out of their meeting just as Uncle Algie want past, and he'd err...sort of lost his towel at some point, so Gran wasn't too impressed." He sniggered. "Uncle Algie had lectures about the importance of proper dress in public for weeks afterwards. It was brilliant." He gave his friends a dreamy smile.

Ron stared at his friend in awe, rather impressed; talk about mayhem. "And what did your Gran think about...Grizzly?" he asked.

"Gran was really proud," Neville said after a moment's thought, "yes...I think she nearly burst into tears, kept telling me how proud my Dad would have been...Gran sorted the greenhouse out for me, fixed it and that, to congratulate me I suppose," he drifted off happily, "...yeah, it was an absolutely brilliant summer."

Ron chewed a roast parsnip thoughtfully; his summer had been rather uneventful in comparison, meeting up with some of the other DC'ers to go running and practice self-defence, preferably not near his Mum. Hermione had joined them regularly until she'd gone on her summer internship in August. Unfortunately, Dad hadn't been able to get tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, but he'd been able to listen to it on the wireless; it had sounded really exciting and the Daily Prophet had hailed the event as a Triumph for Wizarding Britain! Even his homework hadn't been too bad...

He idly turned to watch the Head table. Headmaster Dumbledore was cheerfully watching the fall of rubber ducks from under a particularly vibrant rainbow striped umbrella, completely unfazed. McGonagall was looking thin-lipped and disapproving of the silliness that was going on around her, her dark tartan umbrella equally severe and proper. Uncle Sev- Ron hid a grin- the usual bats that edged Uncle Sev's umbrella were doing loop-the-loops today. It looked brilliant and was getting funny looks from the Durmstrang Headmaster.

"...what is going on, Dumbledore?" The melodious tenor of Madam Maxine drifted over, as she cast a glittering blue shield above her head. "I do not remember any indication that your establishment was so...so..." Words apparently failed her.

The Headmaster gave her a cheery smile. "Oh, merely a student prank gone awry from last year, I'm afraid. We thought we'd dismantled it, but it appears that the Castle herself rather enjoyed it, and so now, as you see..." He gestured at the hall, sighing in amused frustration.

Madam Maxine stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "The Castle?" she asked.

"Hmm, indeed," Dumbledore smiled, "it's one of the problems of old Magical buildings...after a while they start to acquire a certain sentience."

He rose from his seat, twirling his colourful umbrella, flicking his wand in a shower of sparks and a thunderous bang. "If I may have your attention," he announced to the sea of startled students, "it is now time for the lighting of the Goblet of Fire." He smiled round the hall. "I'm sure you are all terribly excited."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right," he muttered softly to himself.

A couple of house-elves appeared with a pop and manoeuvred a small table into place. On top a battered wooden box was placed. Dumbledore and the other delegates of the Tri-Wizard tournament walked round the High Table to stand clustered around it. The Goblet of Fire itself was quickly revealed to be an unassuming object, small and rather plain. Ron glared suspiciously at it with narrowed eyes; if there was one thing Professor Carrow had taught them, it was to expect danger from the most unexpected of places...

"...and with that, may the Tri-Wizard Tournament begin!" Dumbledore announced waving an arm dramatically. A spark flickered to life within the cup, glowing red-gold before spluttering into a pillar of fire, finally settling down into an ethereal flicker.

The students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons cheered and applauded, some rising from their seats in their excitement. The Hogwarts students clapped politely.

"We want Quidditch," some wag shouted from the back.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm sure once you've witnessed the first task you will feel the sacrifice of the Quidditch cup well worth it." He raised a placating hand. "Now, after the feast, the cup will be moved into place in the Entrance Hall so those who wish to enter may do so. The tournament is open to all those seventeen and above only, as a safety precaution. We do wish to avoid the type of tragedies that have so marred past tournaments. In order to ensure this, I will be placing an age-line around th..."

"ALL PRAISE THE LIVING GOD-EMPEROR," a thunderous growling bellow, so deep to be barely understandable, drowned out the Headmaster, "PROTECTOR AND GUIDER OF HUMANITY!"

Ron turned in his seat, trying desperately not to laugh, as the bellowing continued. There in his favourite spot was Chaplain Caius, delivering his usual passionate speech- in English! A little stilted to be sure, but his meaning was perfectly clear. Odd, he thought, could portraits actually learn?

oOo

Barty clumped as quietly as he could down the back corridor and out into the Entrance Hall; he had had to wait bloody ages for all the really sneaky brats to clear off from putting their names in the stupid cup. A couple of them even sprouted beards, apparently a side effect of the age-line; he'd laughed himself silly at their panicked expressions. Just the thought of it was causing him to grin. He looked around, suddenly wary; but a few careful charms revealed nothing living in the vicinity. Quickly, he fished a torn slip of parchment from his pocket bearing the legend Allesandor Darius Carrow, a decent pureblood name if ever he'd seen one, but apparently the man was a dangerous and up-coming Dark Lord, and a threat to his Master.

And it had been almost impossible at first to find the man's signature. For such an important Ministry official, the man was incredibly elusive, hardly ever mentioned in the Prophet, and not so much as a picture or a mention of anything personal, not even his age or where he was schooled. It was almost as if the man was being ignored, which was very strange, considering what most Ministry types were like.

And so, he'd gone through all sorts of ridiculous plans, each more outrageous than the last, before he finally had the clever idea of questioning the Old Bastard. Carrow worked at the Ministry, Moody worked as a consultant for the DMLE, and so had access to areas of the Ministry civilians didn't normally have, therefore...

Moody had proved to be surprisingly helpful, and had revealed some truly disturbing information. Carrow had been here at Hogwarts, had, in fact, taught Defence himself for four months or so, and had single-handedly almost managed to drive the entire student body insane. The bloody Defence Club was probably his idea, run exclusively by his most ardent disciples. At least now he knew who was responsible for the blasted duelling pit at the back of the classroom that the Defence Club was so obsessed with. So the man must have left something behind; it was inevitable, no matter how careful you were.

He searched and searched both his office and the classroom, turned them upside down, looking for something, anything really. A mummified string of garlic bulbs, what was that about, a rather crumpled picture of Gilderoy Lockhart, which was obviously highly distraught at the creases that marred its surface, a dusty jar of pickled doxies. And then, hidden, literally jammed down the back of some drawers he had hit gold, a large tome that- it was almost as though someone had deliberately hid it- appeared to be class plans for every year, of such detail and complexity it was mind boggling; and the things the lunatic author wanted to teach. Barty blanched at some of the descriptions of sword drills and team exercises designed to clear the undead from civilian habitation. And on the front page, written in incredibly precise but rather ugly handwriting was exactly what he was after. Allesandor Darius Carrow had signed his handiwork. Was the man so foolishly over confident he felt he didn't need to ward his mark against people using it maliciously? Shaking his head sadly at the stupidity of others, he had carefully torn the signature out.

Holding the torn slip of parchment out, he now sidled up to the cup and tossed it in. The cup flared slightly, before subsiding. Barty relaxed with a sigh; part one of the plan complete. At least now he could bloody well go to bed. He eyed the Entrance Hall warily, trying to ignore the sense of being watched, the slight flickering of motion in a couple of paintings on the edge of his vision setting his nerves on edge. He never remembered Hogwarts being quite this...spooky when he was a youngster. And now he was starting to sound like an old man. He'd tried asking about it, but the other staff all directed him towards Snape. And Snape was avoiding him...

As he made hobbled back towards the corridor, there was a soft whoosh as of flames suddenly building, and then a soft pop, followed by a rustle...

He turned, puzzled and suspicious, wand drawn; too many damn brats hanging around doing stupid things. Had he triggered some sort of prank? But there on the floor was a crumpled ball of parchment. Hobbling over, Barty leant over painfully to retrieve it. It was the parchment he'd just put in.

Annoyed, he limped back to the cup and shoved the blasted thing back in, glaring at the stupid cup all the while. Had it been spelled to only accept school students? Did he need to hex the wretched thing to override its usual behaviour? Scowling he turned and hobbled away, the siren-song of sleep calling to him.

Something small hit him on the back of the head, hard, and fell to the floor with a rustle. Barty jumped out of his skin, wand raised, looking round the Entrance Hall frantically. Seeing nothing, he turned...to find the crumpled parchment lying mere feet away.

With a snarl, he scooped it up and stomped angrily back to the cup. Swearing under his breath, he cast the strongest Confundus charm on the blasted thing he could, before stuffing the parchment back in regardless of his fingers, but almost immediately the flames flared an angry red and the parchment was forcefully ejected. Barty rocked back, his vision greying at the edges, the stinging blow to his forehead sure to leave a bruise. Just what he needed...oh Merlin's beard! What was he going to do now? He daren't put it back in again.

Scooping up the parchment, he shoved it in a pocket, looking round frantically before hobbling off.

He almost fell down the ladder into the trunk, such was his haste, his Master scowling at his unseemly behaviour.

"My Lord...my Lord," he gasped trying to get his breath back, "the blasted cup...it wouldn't accept...I tried putting his name in...three times...but it...spat it back out...even after a Confundus charm..." he trailed off nervously waiting for the terrible explosion of rage, but it never it came.

Voldemort sat in his high chair staring at him, emotionless, shoulders hunched, hands wringing reflexively. "What to do, what to do," he muttered softly, gazing around sightlessly, till his gaze rested on the vile box lurking malevolently by his chair.

"We have no choice, we are going to have to kidnap him!" Voldemort hissed viciously, his eyes desperate. "He's a Ministry bureaucrat, it shouldn't be too far beyond your...abilities." His usual sneer hid a well of desperation. "If not, then..." his gaze dropped to the evil box once more.

Barty swallowed nervously; he couldn't fail at this, he just couldn't, because if he did...he didn't know what was in that box, and he hoped and prayed that he never found out, but one thing was very clear to him. If the Dark Lord opened it, then the consequences would be terrible.

He had to protect his Master; he couldn't...mustn't, fail.

OOOOOO

It was a beautiful morning, sunny and unseasonably warm, not a cloud in the sky, which in his experience didn't bode very well, Snape thought, as he watched the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, while waiting for his morning edition of the Daily Prophet to arrive so he could indulge in his favourite hobby, speculating over what tricks Carrow had managed to pull this time...and maybe marvel at the increased quality of the paper. No longer did it resemble the very worst of the muggle gutter-press; on a good day it was now almost level pegging with the Guardian...and he didn't even mean it as an insult.

"Severus...the insanity! Do the faculty here have no control?" an angry voice broke through his musing. There, striding up the slowly filling hall, was Karkoroff, looking rather rattled.

"Good morning." Snape gave his one-time Death Eater comrade a small grin designed just to annoy.

Karkaroff glared. "What's good about it? Being woken at six in the morning, by a group of...of youths, shouting "one, two, one, two", and then all the bellowing and screaming and clashing of weapons..."

"Oh, that's just the Defence Club having their early morning run," Snape said a little distractedly. Finally, the post owls were arriving, though why were several heading his way? A sense of foreboding settled over him as he took in the parcel the beautiful snowy owl was carrying. Not another "little gift" from the great lump. They were far more trouble than they were worth; though the shrunken heads had been rather good. He'd hung them up in his office, giving the place some much needed ambience. On the other hand, the still beating remains of an inferi heart he could have well done without.

The letter was...oh, Aquila Industries' R&D department asking for his expertise in a metallurgy experiment of some kind; ooh, that sounded interesting...

"...and that little oriental girl. I swear she was frothing at the mouth and attacking everything indiscriminately...and some idiot had even given her a war hammer of all things, and that so-called teacher was just standing there, watching her with the most apathetic attitude...Severus, are you even listening to me?"

Snape looked around with a start. "Oh, yes, yes, of course. I wouldn't worry about Su Li, she's just a bezerker, very talented. As long as she's got her friends nearby, everything will be fine...and I'm sure Moody had everything in hand." Snape gave a suspicious glance along the table. He was sure the man sitting there, warily poking a poached egg, was an imposter and he really felt no inclination to help the man, like letting him know that now Su Li was immune to the effects of calming drafts, a rather good way of soothing her was to sing Auld Land Signe. According to her friends it worked like a charm, even better than Morning Has Broken, or Kumbaya.

He returned to his vexatious post. The Daily Prophet, on the other hand, looked wonderfully thick, another bumper issue. What had Carrow done this time? He unfolded the paper with a satisfying snap and then paused. The photograph gazed back at him, the two girls, shock-dazed eyes in pale faces, halos of mussed hair, cocooned in rather basic robes and blankets, a hand reached out to a shoulder as an Auror led them past the camera.

He looked at the picture credit- Rita Skeeter- so she was talented with a camera as well as a quill, who'd have thought it? He gave the article a cursory look-over, and then started reading it properly. He blinked in surprise; Merlin, Rita really could write, had she been looking at muggle papers?

"Anything interesting?" Karkoroff asked over his shoulder. Snape rolled his eyes, and handed over the front section; so he'd lost the sports section too...blast, he'd scrounge it back later. So what was left?

Strange sightings of an unidentified creature in the wilds of Gloucester...some sort of troll hybrid... Snape gave a disbelieving huff, looked more suitable for the Quibbler than a supposedly respectable family paper...he turned the page with a sharp crack...an appeal for donations for the Sunshine Rescue Home for Puffskeins. Blasted little creatures, wasn't as if they were any use in potions making, even though apparently they were handy to kill Death Eaters with...some idiot caught with his pants down in a public place, and then promptly hexed by an expert in experimental charms, the moron was still in St Mungo's while they tried to work out what she'd done to him...and then a smallish article caught his attention...

...wands found on the bodies identified as those belonging to Amycus and Alecto Carrow (not related to our esteemed Senior Undersecretary)...

...muggle experts working in conjunction with the DMLE believe the deceased may have lain undiscovered for as long as eighteen months...

...neighbours described the brother and sister as quiet, tending to keep themselves to themselves, rarely being seen in public...

"Oh Merlin," Karkaroff gasped next to him. Snape jerked round with a scowl to find the annoying man had been reading the paper over his shoulder.

"Do you mind," he snarled but Karkaroff took no notice.

"There aren't many of us left," the Durmstrang Headmaster murmured in a daze.

Maybe it was a little horrifying, but he was more inclined to see the Carrow twins' demise as rather poetic, two pure-blood Death Eaters lying dead and undiscovered in a rented muggle property for nearly two years. He was going to have to find some way of subtly congratulating Carrow on that one. "No, there aren't, are there?" he replied, maybe a little too cheerfully, considering the odd look Karkaroff gave him.

And now for the dreaded parcel. He cautiously put an ear against it; well, at least it wasn't making any noises, that was a positive beginning. Cautiously, he worked through his array of detection charms, before slowly and carefully opening it. The rather plain cardboard box lurked ominously among the brown paper daring him to open it.

"It can't be that awful, can it?" Karkaroff asked, his normally jovial personality trying to reassert itself. Snape gave him a flat glare. With the tip of his wand, he gently lifted the lid of the box, to reveal a carefully packed glass jar containing...a unicorn foetus...

Snape hurriedly stuffed the thing back in the box; where the hell...how the hell had Carrow got his hands on such a thing. His mind tumbled frantically; he didn't think it was illegal to own such a thing, but that was most likely because nobody had managed to obtain one, and lived to tell the tale. So how had Carrow...what had he done...and did he really want to know?

He hurriedly resealed the box as Karkaroff started to pay too much attention. "Just some delicate potions ingredients an acquaintance sent me...without warning, as usual," he scowled darkly.

Karkaroff grimaced in disgust at the possible contents, quickly returning to the disembowelled paper. That had been close, Snape thought; best not to relax now or he'd really be in trouble. He hated to think what the Headmaster's reaction would be.

oOo

The sense of foreboding had only increased as the day progressed, and Snape was now stuck restlessly herding errant brats to their actual house tables and dodging over enthusiastic Halloween decorations. The blasted Defence Club had a lot to answer for. Yes, uniting the houses as effectively as they had managed was worthy and all that, and had certainly improved the morale of the school, but unfortunately the camo-clad menaces had become a law unto their own, roaming from house-table to house-table. And so, when it came to occasions like these...

"Creevy, to your house table now!" he snarled at the skinny Gryffindor. The boy froze, his eyes comically wide under his thick fringe (Snape struggled not to laugh) before scurrying back the way he had come, his large black boots slapping on the tiled floor, plonking himself down not far from some of the ring-leaders of the DC, Weasley, Granger and...a Grizzly bear. He glared furiously; the blasted creature turned very guiltily back into Longbottom. He gave the ridiculous boy a curt nod, gritting his teeth in annoyance. At least the foreign students were behaving themselves, though that could be more down to bewilderment and fear, he thought, as he swept past the pale-blue clad Beauxbatons contingent who huddled together at the Ravenclaw table staring warily around them.

Then of course there were Carrow's plans, which were fraught with disaster. If the Headmaster found out what they were about to attempt...he shivered; the sooner this evening was over, the better.

The amplified tapping of a fork against a goblet broke through the chattering of the collected students. A glance at the high table revealed the Headmaster gazing around with a cheerful smile, though it looked a little more jaded than normal, as he nodded politely at some joke that the official from the Sports department of the Ministry was telling him...Bagman, he thought his name was, a washed-up Quidditch player; next to him, sat Crouch. Snape remembered Crouch from the war, a cold and calculating man with all the soul and heart of a dead fish...

He shuddered to himself as he made his way to his seat next to Karkaroff. The other man was giving the large chair next to him rather dubious looks.

"Severus," he hissed quietly, "why is there a chair of...skulls at the table?"

Severus smirked at him, before taking a wonderfully soothing sip of coffee.

"A very good evening to you all," Dumbledore announced, "and a happy Halloween. I'm sure you're all very excited and increasingly impatient for the beginning of the feast and the Drawing of the Names...and we will begin, as soon as our last guest, Senior Under-Secretary Carrow has arrived..." his head cocked to one side for a moment, "...which I do believe will be very shortly."

The sound of the castle's front doors opening was followed by the soft rumble of new voices which grew steadily louder as they approached the Great Hall, the noise increasing and then dying as Filch pushed the large doors open, revealing the gloom of the Entrance Hall. Snape stared; how many people had Carrow brought with him? He blinked in surprise as some of Carrow's pet vampires walked in, clad in their tight leather bodysuits, various weapons, mainly knives, strapped to their limbs, gold skull masks covering their faces; behind them, were some of the new muggle military types Carrow had employed, fanned out near the doors casually cradling...rifles, he thought, their black uniforms bearing a passing resemblance to what Granger liked to wear, but smarter, less frayed. Camo cloaks and black berets with a yellow trim finished their attire. After them, Faulks and that annoying American werewolf sauntered up to the High Table; well, the werewolf sauntered, Faulks looked as rigid as a post, frozen and stiff as he came to stand behind him.

"Is Carrow experiencing a cultural misunderstanding?" Snape whispered discretely to the younger man. Faulks gave him a flat stare, before sighing.

"Something like that," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Snape turned back to the doors trying to hide his grin, sneakily taking a look down the High Table at the stunned teachers and Ministry officials, just as Carrow made his grand entrance. He actually had to put his hand over his mouth to suppress his mirth. A tear of laughter trickling down his cheek, he took in the Monster. The man had obviously seen this as a golden opportunity to dress up to the nines and never being one to back down, the results were...he looked like some author's bad fantasy idea of a Dark Lord, all embossed and gilded leather, golden braid, that overly mobile chain wrapped round his chest as usual, and an enormous cloak, black, gold trimmed, with a lining of werewolf pelt, the collar a particularly fine and shaggy example, which swirled grandly around him as he strode up the Great Hall, smirking like the apex predator he was, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, and followed by a little swarm of those ridiculous flying skull things, which swooped and dove among the floating pumpkins, trailing cables and feelers, chittering and burbling all the while.

Snape risked another look down the table. Karkaroff was frozen in his seat, eyes wide, face grey and sweaty as he watched this apparition swagger down the hall. "And people complained about the Dark Lord?!" he finally squeaked. Snape slapped a hand back over his mouth, desperately trying to save his reputation as the miserable bat of Hogwarts. Beyond Karkaroff, the Hogwarts staff sat in various states of shock, the Ministry personnel looking slightly more jaded. Even the Headmaster was rather wide-eyed, and beyond, Madam Maxine sat with a strange little smile on her lips. Had the Beauxbatons Headmistress developed some sort of crush on Carrow? And beyond her was a scowling Hagrid looking sullenly and sulky...oh dear! And he had assumed that this whole competition thing was going to be so terribly dull...

The Headmaster briskly walked round the table. "Mr Carrow," Dumbledore clasped the other man's enormous hand, smiling warmly, "such a pleasure to see you as always."

"It is good to see you," Carrow rumbled, "outside the confines of government, Headmaster Dumbledore." He gazed around the hall, taking in the Ministry officials, the decorations, the foreign students peering out from under the tables where they had taken shelter, the cheering Defence Club members, some of whom had actually climbed onto the benches and were bouncing up and down. "Tis quite the celebration that you are having tonight. I am glad not to have missed it..."

"Indeed, indeed," Dumbledore patted his arm, "allow me to introduce you..."

oOo

Barty stared at the nightmare apparition that had appeared in the Great Hall, the small furry rodent part of his brain demanding he flee, or at least hide under the table like a sensible person. This was Allesandor Carrow? How was he supposed to kidnap this...this monster?